Priceless
by newyorknewyork
Summary: Billy Baker is dead, there's a rustling in the bushes, and Steve Randle is finally willing to admit that he is afraid. But it might be too late. One shot.


DISCLAIMER: I do not own The Outsiders.

**A/N: This came to me randomly last night, so if something doesn't sound right please tell me. Also, I hope what I'm getting at isn't too subtle, if it is, tell me that too.**

**Warning****: Lots of mature language, drug references, and violence. Reader discretion is advised.**

_Hey guys,_

_I've got something to tell you._

_Yesterday we were humping our way up some mountain. We do that a lot here. But this particular time something interesting happened._

_This kid — Billy Baker — he wouldn't shut the hell up. I mean, he really wouldn't. During the whole damn hike he kept talking about his girlfriend, and then he started talking about his blasted _mother.

"_My girlfriend's real pretty," he was saying. "She gives great blow jobs," he was saying. "But even when we're not doin' it, she's great to be around," he was saying. "I got a letter from her," he was saying. "She's studying biochemistry at Ohio State. I was gonna join her," he was saying. "She's tired of waitin' for me to get outta the war," he was saying._

_Everyone kept telling him to shut the _hell _up, but he wouldn't. Mike O'Neal was whisper-yelling at him, "There's dinks hiding all over this goddamn place — shut the hell up!" _

_He was acting fucking crazy, just chanting about his damn girlfriend. But then he switches gears, starts going on about his mother. _

"_My mother is a wonderful cook," he says. "She makes the best goddamn chowder you'll ever have," he says. "God, I fuckin' miss it," he says._

_Then holds his big-ass gun right up to his head and pulls the trigger. He killed himself with a fucking M-16._

_Everyone stops in their tracks to turn back and look at him, collapsed onto the rock ground, the top of his head gone like he's fucking John F. Kennedy. Everyone crowded around, started making remarks. _

"_Jesus _Christ_."_

"_Doesn't he know the Million Dollar Wound goes somewhere more like the foot?"_

_Laughter._

"_Ol' Billy gave himself the damn Priceless Wound."_

_More laughter._

_Not many in our infantry liked Billy Baker — he was an oddball of the strangest sort — but he was my buddy. He was weird, but he wasn't an asshole like the rest of them. That's what all the men here are, complete assholes. Maybe Soda was smart to join the Marines before getting drafted. He probably doesn't have to mess with so many bullshit people. But truthfully, even if I was surrounded by a bunch of goddamn saints, I wouldn't be interested in buddying around with them. I'm not here to make friends — I've got plenty of those already — I'm here to get out._

_But hey, have you talked to Sodapop lately? I sent him a letter a while ago and he ain't written anything back. I've been keeping track of the days well enough to know his birthday's just around the corner. I wished him a happy one in the letter. So tell that jackass bastard best friend of mine to write me back!_

_Now don't go into a hissy fit, Ponyboy. I'm only joking about the 'jackass bastard' part. And Two-Bit, don't laugh too hard at Pony for turning red out of embarrassment for being called out in my only letter home._

_Anyway, it's not really a big deal. Him not writing back, I mean. We got word of that big raid on his infantry by the NVA. I'll bet Soda's busy writing letters to everyone he knows about how he blasted all those dinks away. Good ol' Soda, man, ya know?_

_But anyway, I'm not writing this letter to talk about Soda. That'd be too easy. I'm writing this to tell you about goddamn Billy Baker._

_After Billy blew his head off, we took his rucksack and got out everything that was useful. We wrapped his personals up and tied it to him, before wrapping him up in his poncho and sending him off in the helicopter. I kept his girlfriend's letter. I don't know why. I don't plan on reading it. I really don't want to know what exactly was said to make my friend blow his brains out. I might go crazy myself._

_Really, though, I don't have to worry about that, because I'm not really here. Not completely. Now hear me out before you start calling me crazy. What I mean is there is a wonderful supply of dope around here. But it's not real heavy stuff, not that bad stuff that they do way down town. I'm not hooked on it or anything like that. It's just this really great thing that takes the edge off. God knows I need that. It makes you quit worrying so you're not really there. So it's like I wasn't really humping fifty pounds of artillery and various other things up a mountain. And like I didn't really watch my friend somehow manage to blow off his head with his own M-16. And maybe right now I'm not lying in my foxhole trying to play poker alone because my friend gave himself the Priceless Wound. And maybe I'm not scared shitless because I can hear some rustling in the bushes around me and because I just heard the sound of a small explosion way off in the distance._

_But I can't hide the fact that now I know how Johnny felt before he died. Being scared of his own shadow the way he was. I get it now. I'm not afraid of many things — hardly anything, really — but I'm afraid to die out here in the fucking jungle. I'm afraid of going to Hell. Lieutenant's a real religious guy. He's always reciting the Ten Commandments and shit like that. Thou shall not kill is number six. Shit, we're all going to Hell. If we ain't already there._

_The dope is wearing off now. It's only when it wears off when I start talking like a pansy. It doesn't matter anyway. My tour will be over soon, and then Soda's will be and it'll be fine. I've got to stop writing now … I just thought you might be wondering what's going down in the beautiful hell pit that is Vietnam, especially since I haven't written much. I'm sure Soda makes up for it, though. Fuck … the dope is really wearing off now and I think I just heard a grenade go off somewhere. Shit like that always starts happening when I come off the stuff._

_Steve._

"Yo, Randle!" Mike O'Neal says, and I look up, sealing the letter in its envelope. I'll send it to Darry's house. "Randle, you got a letter here. It's been mixed up in my mail for a couple days, I think."

So maybe Soda did write me back. "Thanks," I say, and Mike gives me the new letter. He walks off.

I look at it. The name on the return address is Darry's. He writes me once in a while. I read it. He talks an awful lot about Soda, too. I scan the letter a dozen or more times, reading it over and over, before lying down.

I pick up the letter I wrote and crumple it.

I fill my syringe again. It takes the edge off.


End file.
